


Operation Birthday

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Humour, Slice of Life, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Tim is very good at planning. And, while he may come off as cold (which he can’t help; blame it on his upbringing), he loves his family. Yes, even Damian. And he would quite happily do anything to please them.So, naturally, he takes it on himself to organise birthday surprises for his brothers.--
Comments: 23
Kudos: 524





	1. Chapter 1

  
–  
[Dick, November 11]  
  
As it turns out, it’s surprisingly difficult to coordinate a bunch of superheroes to come to the same place on the same day.   
  
Tim says that it might be easier to fake an emergency situation to ensure punctuality. But Bruce gives him this very stern look that says, among other things, that he doesn’t realise his son is joking. And so Tim sighs, returning to his list, and wishing Damian would quit his workout and _help_ for five minutes, because Dick has the unfortunate habit of being everywhere when you don’t want him, and nowhere when you do.  
  
He thinks he’s getting a headache.   
  
  
  
It’s the day before Dick’s birthday when they host the party (just to keep the surprise alive). He comes in bickering with Wally and jumps a mile when the lights turn on, and–  
  
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIGHTWING!”   
  
“Trained by the world’s greatest detective, huh?” Wally grins, as Dick theatrically clutches his heart. “And you said I’m a terrible liar.”  
  
Dick’s grinning, now, and he punches Wally’s shoulder, laughing at the black and blue decorations transforming the tower. A huge amount of heroes, costumed and not, are around the room, holding drinks and laughing at the faintly pink man of the hour.   
  
“You always act suspicious,” he says, pretending to huff. And then he cracks up, says, “But seriously, guys. _Wow_. Really didn’t expect this.” He catches Batman’s eye, in the back, and raises a hand in apology. “Sorry, Pops,” he says, sheepish, and the laugh, good-natured, ripples around the room.   
  
And then the hugs start, pats on the shoulder and hair-ruffles and well-wishes, a lot of friendly teasing. Because Dick makes friends for life.   
  
It is very easy to love him, Tim thinks, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt.  
  
“Holy birthday wishes, Batman!” he hears someone say, from the crowd around Dick, then another voice saying over the music, “Certainly, chum! Birthdays are peachy.”  
  
“Do they know you’re here?” Tim says, without turning.   
  
“They will if they’re not careful,” Bruce says, from behind him. And Tim’s lip twitches. Bruce’s hand descends on his shoulder, squeezing briefly, and he says, “Well, you pulled it off. Good work, Tim.”  
  
Tim inclines his head slightly, eyes still on his brother who’s laughing loudly with a drink in hand.   
  
“He really is the life of the party,” Tim comments, after a moment.  
  
“He hasn’t changed much,” Bruce agrees, smiling wryly. He adds, “I’ll probably take Damian home in the next half hour or so. I imagine,” he glances significantly over at the drinks table, “Things are only going to get livelier from here.”  
  
“Best to minimise Damian’s exposure to other heroes anyway,” Tim says. “Before he can alienate every one of our allies.”  
  
“Hnn.”  
  
Tim’s lips stretch into a smile as he turns to face his adoptive dad. “I guess everyone knows by now that beneath all that muscle and bad temper, you’re just a big _softy_.”   
  
“Careful, Tim,” he says. “We don’t kill, but I know plenty of ways to hurt you.”  
  
Tim laughs.   
  
Then, disconcertingly, Bruce smiles beneath the mask. “Ahh,” he says. “Here comes your punishment now.”  
  
Tim turns, confused, and Bruce has disappeared when he turns back. Then he catches sight of Dick, peering searchingly around the room, and realises what Bruce was referring to.   
He moves to leave before Dick catches sight of him, darts through the crowd to grab his wrist and drag him into a hug. Then, tugging him back to the centre of the party, he kisses Tim’s cheek under the domino.  
  
“Do I have the cutest and best baby brother, or what?” he says, beaming proudly at the heroes around him.  
  
Tim yanks his arm out of Dick’s grasp and says, “I don't–”  
  
“Oh pul-eeze, kiddo,” Dick says, rolling his eyes. “Like there’s anyone else who could’ve pulled this off.” He pulls him in for another hug, says more quietly, “Thanks.”  
  
And Tim, in a move he will freely admit is desperate and self-serving, says, “Hey, Robin helped.”  
  
Damian, in a crisp grey suit and green domino a little way away, freezes, catching his name. Then he tries to dive under the drinks table to make his escape.  
  
He is, of course, unsuccessful, and Tim manages to slip away while Dick drags the tiny vigilante out and into a very unwilling cuddle.   
  
“C'mon,” Dick’s saying. “You gotta hug me, it’s my birthday!”  
  
“It is _not_ ,” Damian’s saying, trying to wriggle out of Dick’s grasp. “It won’t be your birthday for another four _hours_ , you imbecile. Unhand me at once!”  
  
Dick squeezes him delightedly, and the kid actually _growls_. “Does that mean you’ll hug me tomorrow?”  
  
“ _I never said that!_ ”  
  
Tim watches the struggle another minute, shaking his head. Then he leaves, smiling to himself. (Parties were never really his scene.)  
  
  
–  
  
  
[Jason, February 8]  
  
Jason rubs his hands together, pulls his leather jacket closer around him to guard against the chill.   
  
He doesn’t like his birthday.   
  
It brings up too many memories, associations of his dad (bouncing on his knee “my little man”) and then his mom (perfume, soft curly hair and “my little Jason, growing up so quick!” with lipstick kisses). And then Bruce and Alfred, presents and an actual _hug_ and a slab of his favourite chocolate cake, “Happy Birthday, Jay” piped in blue over the top. One year there had been a robin, immaculate in icing, wearing a domino and an R over its breast.   
So no, he doesn’t like his birthday any more. But he tries, out of some odd sense of _right_ , to be. Well. Nicer to himself, today. Even a few years ago his birthday would mean drinking himself into a stupor, but he’s been doing better. Being more responsible.  
  
Anyway, the point is, instead of his usual self-destructive habits, he’s decided to treat himself to a nostalgic chilidog, maybe smoke a while and take a walk, then skip patrol to go to bed at a reasonable hour. That’s _maturity_.   
  
His favourite chilli dog stand, near the pier, hasn’t changed at all from when he was a kid. The sides are scuffed and caked with grime, the awnings faded and almost worn through. The letters on the overhead menu are peeling. The whole place looks like a health-code violation.  
  
They are, without a doubt, the best chilli dogs in Gotham.   
  
There’s a kid behind the counter, no more than 15, in a bright yellow polo and hat, wearing a red apron and a bored expression.   
  
“Hey buddy,” Jason says. “Can I get a regular, hold the onions. And a coke, please.”   
  
“Yeah sure,” the kid says, beginning to move off. His eyes widen, slightly, when he looks directly at Jason, but then he moves about his business a little quicker.   
  
Jason quirks a lip and decides to think nothing of it. Typical that a day when he’s not bruised, battered or bloody he’d get eyeballed by some kid. He looks like a _respectable citizen_ , thank you very much.   
  
When the kid comes back to the window, holding what looks like a damn good dog, Jason waves a note at him.  
  
“No charge,” the kid says.  
  
Jason… opens his mouth. Wonders if this is some weird and highly inappropriate come-on.   
  
Then he adds, “You’re Jason, right?”  
  
Jason closes his mouth. Nods once, wonders if he should be reaching for his gun. No one’s pissed off with _Jason Todd_ , only the Red Hood– so what’s this about? And the kid looks faintly nervous, but is grinning.  
  
“I thought so,” he says. Then, “Um, we aren’t licensed. But some guys came and gave me a lot of money for me to give you–” the kid digs in the fridge for a minute, almost disappearing entirely. Vaguely, Jason thinks he should be ducking away, especially if he’s going to get blown away by someone this artless. He emerges, holding–  
  
–a beer. Jason’s favourite brand, actually.  
  
There is a note rubber-banded around it, slightly damp from condensation.   
  
Jason takes it very carefully, unfolding the note.   
  
_If you wanna hang out tonight, little wing_ , it reads. _All of us (minus Bruce) are close-by. We’re keen to teach ~~the dem~~ Damian ice-skating, but whatever you wanna do is fine. _  
_Hope we hear from you._   
  
Underneath, in different handwriting, reads, _And happy birthday!_  
  
He stares at the note awhile, mouth slack.   
  
“And!” the kid says, slapping his forehead, startling Jason back into awareness. “I almost forgot.” He ducks down and comes up with a small, white cardboard box. “Here,” he says, handing it over.  
  
Jay sets down the beer to open it and his lips twitch.   
  
Inside is a chocolate cupcake covered with buttercream. It reads “Jaybird” in blue icing, and there is a pattern of tiny red bats iced around the outside of the cake.  
  
Jason stares a while longer, because _Alfred_. (And shut up, it’s fucking cold and that’s why his eyes are watering, okay?) Then he closes the lid to the box. He’s shaking his head, bemused, when he says, “How’d you know it was me?” because he can’t not ask.  
  
“The guys from before,” the kid says, shrugging. “They gave me this. And um, told me your order.”   
  
Jason recognises the photo the kid hands over from Dick’s phone a couple months back. It’s cut out a little crooked, and has a gob of blu-tack stuck to the back of it. He looks annoyed in the picture, looking off to the side, eyebrows wrinkled and his mouth open mid-sentence. The photo was taken selfie-style by Dick, who’d been sitting next to him at the time.   
  
Dick had been triumphant, had changed it to his “incoming caller” picture, and Jason had sworn never to call him, so as not to give him the satisfaction.   
  
“One of ‘em called me a 'plebeian’,” the kid is saying, mournfully, and Jay snaps his eyes back up.  
  
“ 'bout this high, yeah?” Jason says, measuring a hand to his ribs, and the kid nods. Jay grins. “That means he likes you.”   
  
He picks up his beer and chilli dog, note stuffed into his pocket, and starts to walk away, thanking the boy absently. He wonders if it would be worth the trouble, to –  
  
“Many happy returns, mister!” the kid calls, and Jason can’t help but laugh.  
  
  
–  
  
[Damian, April 29]  
  
  
  
Dick’s tongue is stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Tim, eyeing him, hopes the paint doesn’t drip, because he didn’t think he’d have to make sure it was non-toxic. (He should have taken Dick into account. Because _really._ )  
  
He adjusts his grip on his own paintbrush, stretching out. They’ve barely been at this for an hour and Tim’s arms and shoulders are aching, his recently healed knee stiff from the position.   
  
“If he likes it, I’ll take the credit,” Dick says decisively, out of nowhere. And, “If he doesn’t, you can take the blame, Timmy.”  
  
Tim snorts. “It’s not like he can hate me _more_.”  
  
Dick nudges him with a foot, and says, “Careful, Timmy, your martyr’s showing.”   
  
“Watch the paint!” Tim reminds him sharply. “Anyway. If he hates it that much, we can just paint it back. But I’m sure he’ll love it.”  
  
“How sure,” Dick asks for what has to be the fiftieth time, and Tim slides over to the ladder so he can sit up beside the scaffold, checking if the midnight paint is even.  
  
“How can you not remember?”  
  
“Remember…?”   
  
“That really close call Jay had last year?” Tim prompts. “Bruce and Alfred were out of their minds with worry, and none of us wanted to sleep so we stayed up talking in the kitchen? We got talking and Damian actually opened up a little about his life before here.”  
  
Dick waits expectantly for the rest of the story, a dribble of paint on his nose making him look even more ridiculous than usual. Tim makes a noise of frustration in his throat, says,  
  
“You were there!” Tim stretches for a minute, ignoring his audience completely. Then he finally leans back. “He said that if he behaved, some nights he was allowed to sit outside and look at the stars. He said he hates how that’s not even possible in Gotham because it’s always cloudy or smoggy, and how that’s what he misses most about 'home’. So yeah, Dick, I’m sure he’ll love it.”  
  
Dick’s giving him an odd look that he can’t be bothered to decipher. “That's… really sweet, Tim. But he’s a weird kid, so don’t be surprised if he gets pissy about us, I don’t know, 'vandalising his sanctuary’ or something.”   
  
Tim shrugs as Dick gets back to his painting. “So when does he get back?”  
  
“The camp lets out the day before… the 28th, I think. So it’s close enough it counts as a birthday surprise, especially because he probably won’t notice it 'til he gets into bed anyway.”  
  
“That should give you plenty of time to let it dry and air out the room, right?”  
  
“Hopefully,” Tim says, getting back onto the scaffold and back to work. “If I haven’t seriously over-budgeted my time.”  
  
There’s silence, for a time– only interrupted by the faint _raaaasp-squeak_ of Dick’s roller, and Tim’s bold strokes.  
  
“You excited for his reaction?” Dick says eventually, already grinning in anticipation.  
  
“Assuming he doesn’t murder me, sure,” Tim laughs. “I just hope pretending to be normal for the school camp doesn’t make him too cranky.”  
  
  
  
  
Damian is scowling when he stomps back into the house, dragging his bag behind him.  
  
“How was it, little D?” Dick says, while Bruce murmurs, “Welcome home.”  
  
“My so-called 'peers’ are imbeciles,” Damian declares. “Honestly, father. Why you don’t just let me quit school I cannot comprehend.”  
  
“Firstly it’s _illegal_ , Damian,” Bruce says.  
  
Dick hoists Damian’s bag up onto his shoulder and ruffles his hair. “Did you have any fun at all, Dami?”   
  
“Tt. Hardly. It was intended to entertain _children_. And my 'teachers'– also imbeciles– are still under the delusion they are somehow _in charge of me_.”  
  
“The car ride home was delightful,” Alfred says, and Bruce and Dick both wince. Then, “Have you eaten, Master Damian?”  
  
“I’d hardly call what they served 'food’, Pennyworth. So I suppose that depends on your definition of eating.”  
  
“Damian,” Bruce warns.  
  
“Thank you, Pennyworth. I’m not hungry.” Damian takes a few steps forward, automatically dodging Dick’s outstretched hand, before he turns. “What time shall I be ready for patrol, Father?”  
  
“We’re taking the night off.”  
  
“But Father–!”  
  
“Damian,” Bruce says, and the boy shuts his mouth. “You’re tired from five days of pretending to be normal, and _I’m_ tired from six nights of patrolling alone.”  
  
Damian draws himself up, says, “Very well. I am going upstairs to shower and rid myself of the stench of mediocrity.”   
  
  
  
  
It’s a bit after 10pm when Damian –clothed in a pair of pale green, umbrella-patterned pyjamas that unfailingly make Dick want to hug him– creeps into the sitting room. Confused and suspicious.  
  
Bruce sits in the armchair, reading. Legs crossed elegantly, a cup of coffee in one hand. Tim is laying on his stomach on the plush rug, chin pillowed on his crossed arms. There’s a complex-looking textbook in front of him, and he occasionally takes notes in the margins. Dick sits on the floor beside Tim, leaning against the vacant couch and sipping his drink, a worn paperback in his hand.   
  
Damian frowns. Because no one is looking at him.   
  
He eases around Bruce’s chair to look him in the face. Distrustful. Hands feather-light on the arm of the chair, staring into his father’s face.   
  
Bruce is still reading.   
  
He glances over at his older brothers. Dick turns a page and shifts his legs (he never can stay still), and Tim frowns absently and makes another note.  
  
When Damian looks back, Bruce’s eyes are on him. And he jumps.   
  
“Was there something–?” Bruce prompts.  
  
“I– no.” Damian shakes his head. Unsure.  
  
And he leaves again.  
  
As soon as Damian is out of sight, Dick glances at the doorway, starting to snicker. Tim kicks him and he quiets. But he, too, is trying not to smile.  
  
They listen closely to the sound of Damian’s feet on the stairs, the tell-tale creak as he gets back to his own room.  
  
There is silence for a few long minutes. The three of them stare expectantly at the ceiling, until they hear Damian coming downstairs again. Dick stifles another laugh and they all return to their reading.   
  
They wait, and sure enough, he skulks back in through the door.   
  
He crosses the room, around Bruce’s chair, and sits beside Dick on the floor. Then– and Tim has to swallow his shock– he presses himself against Dick’s side. Buries his face in the faded old shirt.   
  
“Is this Damian Wayne for 'thank you’?” Dick says, laughing. He puts an arm around the boy, says, “Not that I’m ever one to deny a hug, little D… But it wasn’t really my idea.”  
  
Damian pulls back from the almost-hug, questioning.   
  
Dick grins down at him, squeezing his shoulder. “Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It was _someone_ in this room. But it wasn’t me, or your dad.”  
  
And Damian stares at Tim, who stares back, a little nervously. Damian is open-mouthed.  
  
“This means you like it, right?” Tim says, giving a half-smile. His fingers twitch slightly on his textbook, a telltale sign. He is good at planning, knows how to play the percentages– but this is the surprise he was most worried about, the plan in which he had the least confidence. Because–  
  
Damian is an _unknown_. “I–” he says. Swallows, and draws himself up. Regal in his flannel pyjamas. “It is a… suitable place for rest.”   
  
_Ah_ , Tim thinks. And his half-smile gets a little wider, a cheer rising in his chest. “I’m glad.”   
  
“Why don’t you head on up to bed, Dami?” Dick says, when it doesn’t look as though either of his younger brothers are going to break eye-contact. Damian startles beside him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Colin over for tomorrow. We can go pick him up tomorrow morning, and B said he can stay over if you want.”   
  
Damian looks surprised by this before he smothers the look, says, “Very well, Grayson. I suppose that sounds like a suitable celebration.”  
  
Dick grins as the boy stands. “Enjoy your last night being ten.”  
  
“It’s true, the world does change drastically once you turn eleven,” Bruce murmurs blandly, not looking up from his book.   
  
And Damian’s nose scrunches, step faltering. It takes a long minute to realise his father is joking, at which point he scoffs, loudly, and exits the room.   
  
“ 'night, D!” Dick calls after him.   
  
And when Tim heads up much later, freshly showered but exhausted from his brief patrol, Damian’s door opens slightly.   
  
The boy in question peeks out. “Drake.”  
  
Tim waits for Damian to open the door fully, frowns. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”  
  
“I. Wanted to ask.” Damian looks away. “Why.”  
  
“Because you’re family,” Tim says, after a moment. “And this is your home now, so it should feel like one.”  
  
“…Oh.” And Damian is still looking at the carpet. Pink rising in his cheeks.  
  
Tim has to ask, because he has to _know_ – “Do you… really like it?”  
  
“Yes,” he whispers, after a time. “Yes. It's–” he closes his eyes. Then, instead, "It must have taken a very long time.“ Damian tilts his head then, eyeing Tim. He looks calculating, much more like Bruce, but with that odd softness of childhood so rarely visible in Damian. In spite of this, he looks strangely vulnerable, almost lost– too-small a boy in green pyjamas in a too-big, dark house. He says, "Drake. If you tell Grayson about this, I will kill you.”   
  
And he steps forward to squeeze Tim around the middle in what’s probably supposed to be a hug. “I am… grateful, Drake.”  
  
Tim smiles, then, resting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “It’ll be our secret.” He ruffles Damian’s hair, says, “Happy birthday, akhi.”   
  
And as Damian returns to his room to admire his own personal painted sky, Tim feels… _lighter_. (He hasn’t felt like an older brother before.)  
  
–  
  
  
  
  
[Tim, July 19]  
  
  
  
Dick guides Tim gently into the room, a slow shuffle and a supporting arm around his waist. “Well… ” he announces, falling just short of jovial. “Here’s the birthday boy.”   
  
“Hello, Tim.”  
  
“Evenin’, babybird.”  
  
“Drake.”  
  
“Say 'happy birthday’,” Dick prompts.  
  
They obey with varying degrees of enthusiasm.  
  
“I’ve had some pretty lame birthdays,” Tim says, as Dick eases him onto the couch beside Bruce. His eyes are half-lidded, but he’s smiling. “I gotta say… sleepin’ through most of it is especially lame, even by my standards.”  
  
“Are you in much pain, Tim?” Bruce asks. He shifts, resting a hand very gently on Tim’s shoulder, coaxing him forward so Dick can set up some pillows.   
  
“Nuh-uh,” he says, sagging back as Dick sits on his other side. “I think Alfred… dosed my tea, maybe.”  
  
“Master Timothy,” Alfred says reprovingly, entering the sitting room. He sets down a tray of drinks on the side-table. “Does that _sound_ like something I would do?”  
  
The silence is very pointed, and there are a number of smothered smiles. But no one says anything (mostly because they are afraid of Alfred). And Alfred nods approvingly, exiting the room again.  
  
Jason, finally tossing down his game controller after a particularly spectacular death, turns. He whistles low. “Killer Croc won this round, huh babybird?”  
  
“I dunno, he must’ve bruised his knuckles pretty bad on all my broken bones,” Tim says mildly, ignoring the set of Bruce’s jaw.   
  
“Broken nose too,” Jay shakes his head. “Bet it hurt like a bitch getting the cowl off.”  
  
“Not one of my best moments,” Tim agrees, lifting a self-conscious, bandaged hand to the Batman-themed– _thank you, Alfred_ – bandaid over his nose. His eyes are blackened, one side of his jaw mottled dark purple, and his oversized sweatshirt does nothing to hide the bulk of his bandages.   
  
Bruce is looking at Tim with concern, says, “No one will mind if you go back up to bed, Tim. You look like you could use the rest.”  
  
“I’m okay,” Tim protests, trying to sit up straighter. “Honestly. I’ll prob'ly just fall asleep, but I don’t mind if you guys don’t.” And he goes very slightly pink, says, “It’s nice… everyone. To have company, I mean.”  
  
Dick wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders, kissing the shower-damp hair curled at his temple, and says, “So, we picked a movie yet, Timmy?”  
  
But before he can answer the lights are flicked off, and Alfred enters the room holding a birthday cake covered in lit candles.  
  
Tim says, “Please no.” and buries his face in Dick’s shirt. But he knows it’s too late, as the family have started a rousing rendition of 'Happy Birthday’. When it comes time to sing his name, it gets a little confusing– _Tim, Timmy, Babybird, Drake, Master Timothy_ – but otherwise is lovely, in a mortifying sort of way, and the bruises in his face hurt when he blushes dark red.  
  
“I nominate one of you to blow out the candles,” Tim says, after. “Someone with… less broken ribs. More lung capacity. Even Jay, an’ he’s a smoker.”  
  
“Challenge accepted,” Jason says, annoyed but trying not to laugh. “You little–”  
  
 _“–it’s his birthday–”_  
  
“–birthday boy.” Jason scooches across the carpet, closer to Tim, cups a hand to his own ear and says, “Okay, tell me your wish.”  
  
“Wishes don’t come true,” Tim says, automatically.  
  
And Jason gets on his knees to flick Tim’s ear– _“Ow!”_ – telling him, “You cynical bastard! Okay, I'mma make a birthday wish on your behalf. Gimme a sec.” He closes his eyes, says, “And don’t rush me, the kid’s gonna have to live with this wish for a year.”   
  
Bruce rolls his eyes, trying not to smile, and Alfred is smiling an Alfred-smile. Dick grins wide and Damian tuts, affecting carelessness. Tim laughs, disbelieving and a little helplessly against Dick’s side until Jason grins, triumphant, and blows out all eighteen candles.   
  
The man of the hour only winds up eating two mouthfuls of his birthday cake, apologising to Alfred, (but Jason shotgunned what was left of his slice, so no harm was done).  
  
They settle on watching _Monsters Inc_., because Dick and Tim are the only ones who have seen it, and it’s non-offensive, even to the bundle of parental-issues and family angst that is their rag-tag bunch.  
  
Tim falls asleep a few minutes in. He starts off leaning on Dick’s shoulder, face buried, but eventually– to Dick’s chagrin– tips until he’s sleeping on Bruce instead. The man shifts, slightly, to make sure Tim is comfortable and not hurting himself, and makes sure he’s covered with the blanket. (He also puts a pillow under the teen’s head, because he has a habit of drooling when he’s exhausted– and Bruce loves his boys, he does, but he tries to draw the line at bodily-fluids).  
  
And when Jason tips back to look Tim in the face, smiling in his sleep, he says, “Shit. He really is just happy we’re all here, isn’t he?”  
  
Damian wriggles from his spot beside Dick’s feet to eye his sleeping brother, says, “Unless it’s Pennyworth’s vicodin.”  
  
Dick snorts at that, quickly covers his mouth at the sound, but Tim doesn’t stir from his spot against Bruce’s leg. “We’re family, you jerks. He loves you.”  
  
“Does he realise,” Jay murmurs, shaking his head. Disbelieving. “That two of the people in this room have tried to kill him? On more than one occasion?”   
  
Dick leans forward to smack Jason over the head. “Stop trying to ruin the moment!” he hisses.  
  
“If Tim wakes up right now to find you all staring at him,” Bruce tells his sons, after a moment. “It’s going to give him a complex.”  
  
So they all shuffle back to their rightful places.   
  
It’s a few minutes before Damian says, “Perhaps. When Drake is sufficiently recovered, we should. Do an activity of some kind. Together.”  
  
“You mean as a family, Dami?”  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Damian snaps, red to the tips of his ears.  
  
“I think that sounds good,” Jason agrees, and Dick suppresses the urge to hug him. “We can make up for babybird being injured on his birthday, and for none of us being able to think of a surprise.”   
  
“I’m sure we can manage that,” Dick says, and he can’t stop smiling.  
  
  
And when the movie finishes, Bruce _very carefully_ begins to ease his injured son, blanket and all, into his arms.  
  
“Happy birthday, little brother,” Dick murmurs a little sadly, but he’s smiling.  
  
“Look at it this way,” Jason whispers. “We’ve got a whole year to think of a good surprise before his next birthday.”  
  
“Uhhnn… B?” Tim mumbles, still mostly asleep and shifting in Bruce’s grip.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Tim,” Bruce says gently, and Tim does.  
  


**-THE END-**


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after posting Operation Birthday, I got a request on tumblr to write a snippet of the morning after Tim's disastrous birthday! Therefore, epilogue.

  
Tim wakes up in his bedroom at the Manor, his mouth tasting like that special kind of fuzzy that means a painkiller hangover. He only remembers parts of last night, and he is one large, throbbing pain. He wonders absently when he’s due for another dose.  
  
He keeps his eyes closed. He’s not quite ready for the immediate headache light will bring. He can smell… something baked, chocolate probably, and hears the very distant sounds of… conversation?  
  
His head is pillowed on something warm and rough, and it takes him a few moments to appreciate the oddness of that. A frown pulls at his lips, and he carefully reaches up a bandaged hand to fumble over the fabric. It’s hard, but still comfortable under his head, and his fingertips catch on the warm fabric. He frowns a little more, patting and moving his hand up.  
  
“Timmy, buddy,” a voice says, making him jump. “Before you move that hand any further, I’m gonna have to insist you buy me dinner.”  
  
Tim– makes a sound in his throat, shock, horror, and embarrassment, and reels back across the bed into… another warm body.  
  
“Easy, baby bird,” Jason’s voice says, hands steadying him. Then, “Geez, Dickie, give the kid a heart attack, won’t you?”  
  
“I,” Tim says. “What?” He looks between Dick, smiling apologetically and amused, and Jason behind him, who is looking at him with a mix of pity… yeah, also amusement. Tim closes his eyes and definitely doesn’t whimper.   
  
“We’re watching a movie,” Jason explains, after a moment. “We didn’t want you to feel left out.”   
  
“I– are you– you’re making fun of me now? I don't–” and Tim is maybe not at his best in the mornings, but this is absolutely not _fair_.  
  
Dick and Jason’s hands guide him gently back to laying down, head resting back on Dick’s thigh. Dick’s hand trails through his hair as he says warmly, “Relax, kiddo. We had fun last night, we thought we’d continue the celebration.”  
  
And then Tim has a forkful of cake in his mouth. He looks up at his big brother accusingly from his lap, trying to swallow the mammoth-sized bite.   
  
“Day-after-birthday-breakfast,” Dick says innocently. He grins, his mouth full of cake. “It’s tradition.”  
  
“If all of you are _quite done_ talking,” a third voice says sharply. “Some of us haven’t seen this before.”  
  
Tim struggles to sit up, says vaguely, “D-Damian?”  
  
The boy sits up from where he’s flopped at the end of the bed, a smear of chocolate icing on one side of his mouth. “Drake.”  
  
And Tim looks at the TV for the first time, finally registering the sounds that have been on the edge of his awareness.   
  
“Are we…” he says blankly. “Is this Lord of the Rings?”  
  
“We’re gonna marathon them,” Dick says, once again coaxing Tim back down. “You can go back to sleep if you want, Timmy. We’ll wake you up again for your meds.”  
  
“... again?”  
  
“Told you he wouldn’t remember,” Dick tells Jason over his head, and feeds him another mouthful of birthday cake.   
  
–  
  
And the day is… pleasant, in a painful, hazy sort of way. Dick wakes him up for his favourite parts, and Damian is a captive audience, gasping and flinching in all the right places, apparently forgetting he’s not alone.   
  
Jason wakes him once, yanking on the back of his shirt, says, “You were rolling onto your face, idiot. That’s broken nose 101.” and even absently pets his back until he dozes off again.  
  
His brothers feed him a bit more cake, and Alfred gives him some more (wonderfully medicated) tea, and he dozes his way pleasantly through all three movies. Jason and Dick are in and out a bit, everyone trading spots at least twice, but it’s. Well, it’s exactly what he wanted.   
  
It’s early evening when Bruce comes in, looking somewhat surprised at his boys flopped bonelessly over Tim’s bed in the closing scenes of _The Return of the King_. “What's… going on?”  
  
“Keeping an eye on the baby bird,” Jason says, without taking his eyes off the screen. “The little shit kept trying to escape.”  
  
And Tim can’t help but laugh, half-propped up on headboard and still dozy, faintly dizzy from the painkillers and concussion. Dick had had to help him to the _bathroom_ before.  
  
“Diabolical,” Dick agrees. Then he yawns. “Hey, B.”  
  
“Is that… did you boys really eat the rest of that cake today?” Bruce says, faintly disgusted as he takes in the dirty dishes stacked untidily on Tim’s nightstand.  
  
“Alfie saved a piece for when Tim’s feeling better,” Dick defends. He stretches an arm out to sling over Damian, whose eyes are still focussed on the screen.   
  
“Shall I tell Alfred to head down to the Cave and start taking out all your suits?” Bruce says, an eyebrow raised.  
  
And no one looks at him or responds.  
  
“That was a fat joke,” Bruce says, a bit awkwardly now, and rubs the back of his neck. And when still no one responds, he feels compelled to add, “Because you ate so much cake.”  
  
“We got it, Dad,” Dick says, finally taking pity, and Jason stifles his laugh, because _honestly_.  
  
“Are you watching Lord of the Rings?” Bruce says finally, forehead wrinkling. “What is this rated?”  
  
“Assassin baby,” Jason reminds. “He’s seen worse.”  
  
“He’s _done_ worse,” Dick says. “No offence, Dami.”  
  
“For the love of God,” Damian snaps, ducking out from under Dick’s arm to glare at everyone. “There is _less than five minutes left_ would you all please shut up for the first time in your _life_.”   
  
“Why don’t you go get changed, B?” Dick suggests, trying not to laugh as Damian stares determinedly at the screen with a pout. “There’s gonna be a five minute intermission before we vote on our next movie.”

  
**-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely anon on tumblr pointed out I hadn't posted this here yet - it's a very old fic which I had totally forgotten about.
> 
> Please also note, I had to pick a birthday for Dick (when I googled it he had like 3 different birthdays, because comics), and I had to make one up for Damian, because at the time he didn't have a confirmed birthday in canon. It's an old fic, so I won't be amending it to make the birthdays match whatever is the current canon!


End file.
